


of smiles and handy phones

by sushishorts



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale, Pining Crowley, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 08:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20255353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushishorts/pseuds/sushishorts
Summary: From: AziraphaleI’m not sure how I’d feel about it, too. We’ve been friends for eons. As far as I know, no being has ever gotten his fancy, ever.From: AnathemaEver? Not even a certain blonde bombshell?From: AziraphaleHuh? I don’t think he likes blondes.From: AnathemaI assure you, Aziraphale; he definitely likes blondes.Aziraphale gasps upon realization.From: AziraphaleAnathema! You know who he likes!In which Aziraphale realizes that Crowley is in love, but apparently, he is the only one who does not know who it is, exactly.





	of smiles and handy phones

**Author's Note:**

> a few things i'd like to acknowledge: bon appetit for the recipes and sortedfood for the restaurants mentioned, the ritz for that enlightening and honestly intimidating menu, and the rest of the internet for the posh bullshit (vintage wines, cheese and wine pairings, etc.)
> 
> this is the second fic i wrote, but the first one i finished
> 
> this is also based on a riku/sora doujin called "crown" by RS
> 
> hello, good omens fandom! thank you for accomodating us new fans to your wonderful community. do let us know if we're being annoying brats about it tho
> 
> nonetheless, enjoy! nothing but soft crowley here. softest snek!!

\--

He notices a fluttering feeling of love from Crowley after the Armageddon’t.

Aziraphale isn’t bothered by it at all, at least; he knows Crowley is capable of emitting such a positive feeling since he _ was _ an angel before, even if the demon insists that it was a long time ago. When he picks up on the feeling, they are having dinner at The Ritz, and the demon is watching him devour that cheesecake like a champ.

“Any good?” Crowley asks, his chin resting on his palm.

Aziraphale nods. He slices off a piece and offers it to the demon, who chomps it as soon as it is near his mouth. Crowley lets out a surprised noise.

“Hmm,” He says tentatively. Aziraphale watches him. “Surprisingly good.”

“Right? Blueberries aren’t even in season anymore!”

Then, the feeling wafts off Crowley in small increments, and the angel knows that the demon doesn’t notice it, to begin with. But it doesn’t cross Aziraphale’s mind to even point it out, because he _ likes _ how it feels.

Crowley’s love feels a lot like home, which says a lot because Aziraphale never considered anything his home for the past six thousand years.

He continues eating his cheesecake, and when he’s picking up his last bite, Crowley beckons the waiter for another slice.

Aziraphale lights up. Crowley has to point at his halo and tell him to hide it away before anyone sees, but the angel doesn’t miss the smile that is stuck on his face until they finish dinner.

So Crowley feels love. Not completely unexpected, but it makes an immortal entity wonder, at the very least.

Anathema and Newton are in London for the weekend to sightsee, since Anathema hasn’t had the chance to see much of the country outside Tadfield. Crowley offers his Mayfair flat to the couple, but Anathema insists that she can get a hotel room instead.

“We wouldn’t want to impose,” Anathema says, and she looks alternatingly at Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Besides, my house is in the area as well, so if she can’t get a hotel room, she can always stay with me,” Newton adds.

Crowley shrugs, but Aziraphale smiles. The demon walks on with Newton beside him, and Aziraphale and Anathema trails just a few meters behind them. “He insists, really. His flat is a little too big for him, and he gets a little lonely sometimes.”

“I can hear you, angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale keeps mum for two seconds. Anathema giggles.

“I’ll think about it some more, then,” Anathema says.

Lunch is at The Ritz, which shocks Newt, mostly because he knows how hard it is to get a table there during peak times, but Crowley saunters in confidently and says his name with a bored expression, almost like he knows he can get a table at any given moment, even if they had to throw the Queen out for it.

“Ah, Mr. Crowley! Dining with your partner again, I presume?” The hostess asks, genuinely gleeful upon seeing the angel and demon again.

The Feeling wafts again, and Aziraphale looks up. Crowley only says, “Two pairs this time, I’m afraid.”

“Ah,” The hostess looks at her list immediately and notices her error. “Of course. Right this way, then.”

She leads them to their usual table, already set up for four people. Crowley pulls out a chair for Aziraphale, and the angel thanks him with a smile. Crowley walks over to his seat and sits comfortably, already looking at the wine selection. Anathema and Newt watch them move around together with the most amused expression.

The waiter walks over and asks if they are ready to order.

“No allergies whatsoever, you two?” Aziraphale asks them. The two shakes their head no. “For starters, maybe a Louis Roederer Cristal Brut, my dear?”

Crowley nods. “And maybe Menu 2? They have Tunworth Royale; perfect match for the champagne.”

“Ah, yes, plus that spectacular fillet mignon!”

Crowley points at the dessert. Aziraphale smiles. “It’s been a while, so let’s splurge a bit.”

The waiter nods. He takes the menus from them.

Anathema and Newt just blink wordlessly. Aziraphale turns to Anathema and starts a conversation, while Newt attempts to do the same with Crowley. Upon finding out that Crowley has the latest computer in his flat, Newt’s eyes twinkle in interest.

“Ah, Newt and his computers,” Anathema watches on with a fond smile.

“You’re quite in love with him, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks. She tries to hide her blush, but the angel waves it off with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he feels the same way.”

“You think?”

Aziraphale blinks. “I don’t think. I know.”

“How so?” Anathema asks.

“Well,” Aziraphale muses. It is not exactly easy to explain something so unworldly to a human, but he figures since she is the descendant of Agnes Nutter, she would at least be able to understand the concept of it. “You know how you can see auras of everyone?” Anathema nods. “It’s sort of like that.”

“You’re an occultist, too?” Anathema asks, brows raised.

“Well, I dabble with the supernatural, I guess. Him and I,” He looks at Crowley, who seems bored with Newt’s questions. “Love’s different every time, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that he does love you.”

“So it’s like how Crowley feels about you, then?”

Aziraphale pauses. He turns to Anathema with a confused expression. Behind him, Crowley is looking at Anathema with a scathing glare.

The champagne arrives, and the mood dampens. Newt audibly moans at the first sip, and Aziraphale laughs. Crowley keeps silent throughout lunch. The angel is more than happy to fill up the silence with his silly stories from the 16th century. Anathema recalls bits and pieces from the book, and she wonders how he knows those bits to begin with.

When they finish lunch, the two stand up without bothering with the bill. Anathema and Newt panics as they walk out, but when no one stops them in any way, they calm down somehow.

They part ways from there. Aziraphale waves at them goodbye as they walk in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Crowley scared the bejeezus out of me,” Newt admits as they walk on. “I honestly thought he was going to kill you right then and there.”

Anathema pales. “I’m pretty sure he would have, if Aziraphale wasn’t there.”

“But did he really have to glare at you like that?”

“He probably hasn’t told Aziraphale,” Anathema shrugs. She reaches for Newt’s hand with a smile. Newt looks down at his hand, then at Anathema. She doesn’t look back. “Not all of us are lucky to be so conscious about what the other feels, you know?”

Newt gulps, and nods. He looks ahead with a blush on his cheeks. Anathema sees, and kisses his cheek.

On the other direction, Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s hand. He curls up his own and stuffs it inside his pocket.

Aziraphale senses the Feeling again, a little stronger now, and savors it happily.

When Aziraphale finds out that most of the people in the 21st Century barely used a rotary telephone anymore, he seeks out Crowley’s help to purchase a smartphone.

Crowley barks out a laugh and says, “This is gonna be a disaster, isn’t it?”

Turns out, he is right.

The angel understood nothing about technology, especially about the specifications in every phone they encounter. He wonders why there is a need to take into account battery life, memory (whatever that is), display type (whatever that is, part deux), camera (when there’s no film involved? Sorcery!), and colors (at least he knew this concept), against its retail price. (A thousand pounds for some handy phone? Humans are drifting further away from the Lord as they speak.)

So he lets Crowley do all the work, in exchange for a lovely dinner at Flesh & Buns, a Japanese-South American fusion restaurant that serves wonderful varieties of bar food with their wide selection of sake.

He needs Crowley to widen his food tastes, after all. A lifetime is a long time to dine at The Ritz alone.

With the promise of Japanese alcohol in the horizon, Crowley breezes through the store and heads straight to those silly forbidden fruit-named devices, which seems a little sentimental of him.

“You know, I think the Almighty might actually smite me when I buy that,” Aziraphale gulps. The phone is thin and sleek in his hands.

“It’s the latest model, and look! I’m buying the same just so you feel better about it. It’s our side’s gadget, or whatnot,” Crowley assures. He waves at the salesperson and points at what they wanted: Gold for Aziraphale, and Space Gray for Crowley. The demon pays in cash, and lets the salesperson assist them with setting it up. Crowley has a sim card and an Apple ID, apparently, so his process is seamless. Aziraphale has none of those things.

Crowley only sighs defeatedly and sets it up for him. Miracles up a sim card, too; unlimited calls, text, and data.

“Just so you know, angel, if you decide to take nudes with this thing, I _ will _ know, and I will hack your iCloud just because I know your ID and password, so I suggest you change your password when you get a hang of things,” Crowley grins, peeking from his glasses. 

Aziraphale only shrugs. “No need for that; I trust you, my dear.”

The Feeling explodes completely, and this time, the angel knows that Crowley let that out deliberately. He grabs Aziraphale’s phone, types in his number, sets it in speed dial, and runs off to Heaven knows where.

“C-Crowley? What about dinner?”

“Rain check, angel!”

Aziraphale sulks on his way back to his bookstore, because he really has been looking forward to the Octopus Ceviche and those Kinako Black Sugar Custard Doughnuts.

(That night, before he falls asleep, he receives a message from Crowley:

_ I trust you too. Good night. _)

Crowley is definitely in love.

Upon getting the phone, he figures out how to get Anathema, Newt, and Adam’s numbers. Newt is nice and polite via messages, except it takes him half a day to reply. Adam hardly uses correct punctuation and sends him weird images that are supposed to be funny, which he calls “memes”. He also calls Aziraphale sometimes just to tell him about what The Them did that day, which is always loads of fun to hear. Anathema, on the other hand, is lovely, and often asks about Crowley.

**From: Aziraphale**  
_ You know, I think Crowley’s in love with someone. _

**From: Anathema**  
_ Do you know who, by any chance? _

**From: Aziraphale** **  
** _ No! I wouldn’t dare ask that old fool. He’s really touchy about those kinds of topics. _

**From: Anathema**  
_ It wouldn’t hurt to try, though, if you’re really interested? I mean, I’m sure he’d just tell you, if you asked him straight up. _

**From: Aziraphale**  
_ I’m not sure how I’d feel about it, too. We’ve been friends for eons. As far as I know, no being has ever gotten his fancy, ever. _

**From: Anathema** **  
** _ Ever? Not even a certain blonde bombshell? _

**From: Aziraphale** **  
** _ Huh? I don’t think he likes blondes. _

**From: Anathema** **  
** _ I assure you, Aziraphale; he definitely likes blondes. _

Aziraphale gasps upon realization.

**From: Aziraphale** **  
** _ Anathema! You know who he likes! _

**From: Anathema** **  
** _ Of course I do. Forget me, I think Adam does, too. But Crowley would probably end us if we babbled about it, so I can’t really say more. I think I already said too much, actually. _

**From: Aziraphale** **  
** _ That slippery snake honestly thought he could hide this from me? Hmph. And here I was thinking of bringing him to Franco’s, for a change. Friends don’t keep secrets from each other! _

**From: Anathema** **  
** _ Okay, wow. This is… wow. Poor Crowley. _

Aziraphale sighs, agreeing completely. The poor demon must have felt awful, falling in love with a mortal who’d sooner fall to Death’s hands.

**From: Aziraphale** **  
** _ Help me out, my dear. He’d never tell me any of this. _

It takes a while before Anathema replies, and the angel completely forgets about the conversation. Aziraphale is already finishing up his inventory when he hears a ping from his room. He ignores it for the meantime and decides to finish fixing his catalog before retreating back to his room, where his phone sat on top of a first edition Austen that he has been reading over the past few nights.

**From: Anathema**  
_ Okay. Here’s a hint, since I pity you both: I’ve never seen Crowley smile, ever. _

Any other question Aziraphale thought of asking Anathema disappears completely, and he is left in his thoughts and memories for a few days. He barely checks his phone for the next week, and when he realizes he’s been scouring the entire six millennia worth of memories, he thinks, _ is it me, or does Crowley smile a lot? _

When he charges his phone back to life, he sees multiple messages from Crowley, all inviting him for dinner. A few tells him that the demon would wait for him, regardless if he replies or not. Aziraphale feels guilty almost immediately, and speed-dials Crowley.

It doesn’t even ring once.

“_Aziraphale! _ ” Is it Aziraphale, or does Crowley sound oddly relieved? “_Angel, are you okay?_”

“Of course!” The angel assures. “I do have to apologize; I was stuck reading for the past week, and I barely moved an inch!” Technically, it isn’t a complete lie; he has been reading into every single detail of his memory for the past few days, but it helps steady his voice to assure himself that he isn’t sinning by lying to the demon. “I have missed quite a few dinners, I’m afraid,” He adds sadly.

“Don’t worry about it; I didn’t stay long, anyway. The hostess was getting worried, though. Thought we split up for good.”

Crowley is all the way at Mayfair, but Aziraphale could feel his worry seeping through the call. A smidge of hope, too. This is all so confusing.

“I don’t think I can ignore you deliberately, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. “If you aren’t too cross with me, maybe I can tempt you to some lunch?”

“You lost track of time, angel. That’s hardly your fault,” Crowley replies. “But it’s actually five in the afternoon, so you might have to tempt me to some dinner, instead.”

Aziraphale looks up to his grandfather’s clock and gasps. “You’re absolutely right. I can be such an absolute dunce. Oh, I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley tells him. “So, The Ritz?”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Aziraphale fiddles with the hem of his vest. “Would you like to come over? I can make a quick meal and pair it off with some vintage wine. Any preference?”

Crowley is silent for a few seconds, before asking, “Do you still have any 1945 Bordeaux Reds left?”

“A gorgeous Chateau Mouton Rothschild. I have a few bottles left.”

“Perfect,” Crowley answers in a low voice; sultry, decadent. The angel needs no meal other than his voice, now. “I’ll be right over, then.”

Aziraphale is unsure why, but his heart starts beating way too fast for comfort.

Aziraphale contemplates on snapping his fingers for a delicious bolognese, but he settles on creating a quick mushroom carbonara. He cooks it half the time just to make sure Crowley doesn’t have to wait for the meal.

It takes quite a bit of time before Crowley arrives, however, so he figures he should at least make dessert. A salted caramel chocolate tart sounds lovely, so he miracles the ingredients on his countertop, and looks for a good recipe for it.

He is in the middle of assembly when Crowley steps in the loft, a bouquet of red carnations in hand. As soon as he spots Aziraphale, his lips curl up in a fond smile, and Aziraphale, with his working brain and all, goes _ oh_.

Aziraphale turns as red as he could go.

Crowley notices it and rushes to him, asking, “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Can angels get sick? Is heaven fucking you up? Am I gonna have to fight ten million angels?”

Aziraphale’s heart beats faster. He brushes him off. “Don’t be silly.”

Crowley eyes him cautiously, but drops the subject altogether. He gives the bouquet instead. “To liven up the place; you’ve been way too invested in browns. And tartans. Urgh, Aziraphale, honestly. We are in the 21st century already. Please pick up the pace.”

Sometimes, Crowley forgets that Aziraphale is a very well read angel.

Kate Greenaway released the book called Language of Flowers in 1884, and he owns the first edition of that book. He has read that book from start to end in one go while walking around in Chelsea Psychic Garden, admiring every blooming bud that Spring day. Carnations, in general, pertain to love and devotion, but red carnations specifically say one thing: “Alas! For my poor heart.”

He takes it gingerly, careful not to touch Crowley’s hands to the fear of burning up entirely out of embarrassment, and mumbles a small thanks. He perks up over the thought of dinner, however, and asks Crowley to sit down and wait. He miracles the rest of the assembly for the tart and keeps it in the fridge for the meantime.

Dinner goes as well as he’d hoped; Crowley is nice enough to supply details of the days he missed, and assures him that he didn’t miss much anyway.

“I did cause Facebook to crash, and people start assuming it’s because of Mercury Retrograde,” Crowley growls. “Someday, I’m gonna cause Facebook, Instagram, Whatsapp _ and _ Twitter to crash, and everyone will blame it on the devil.”

Aziraphale understands nothing of what he says, but retorts, “Stop it, you. The humans are fond of their narcissistic image boards.”

“_Narcissistic image boards _?” Crowley repeats, vexed. “Just call it social media, angel.”

“There’s nothing social about looking through your personal feed for enjoyment, you know,” Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

Then, they go silent. Aziraphale gulps. He figures he could ask about it, now?

“Say, Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley looks up from his almost finished pasta. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you… in love with someone?”

Crowley’s eyes widen, and he rests his fork down. “Yes, I suppose I am. What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I, uh,” Aziraphale places his fork down, as well. “Well, I figured you didn’t notice, but you’ve been emitting love a few times when we’re together, and I thought you might be thinking about them.”

To the angel’s surprise, Crowley grins. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you guess who it is. If you get it right, you win a prize.”

Aziraphale thinks about it. “There is nothing in this world you can offer me that I don’t already have, Crowley.”

Crowley snaps, and the framed sketch of Mona Lisa hovers in the air. _ Heavens, _ Aziraphale thinks, _ I do want that. Da Vinci did get her right the first time. _

The carnations look beautiful on his desk. _ Well, here goes nothing. _

He pours the remainder of the wine on his glass, picked it up by the stem, then asks, “Is it me?”

Crowley says nothing, but looks genuinely shocked. Aziraphale grows redder by the unanswered second, so he stands up and says, “O-oh dear, we’ve ran out of wine! Wait here, I’ll go get some!”

He goes straight down to his backroom, where he stores most of his wine. He kneels down to pull the cask under the table, where he plops over and groans. “You impertinent little angel,” Aziraphale mumbles to himself. “Pride is a sin! Vanity is a sin! No angel would dare sin either one in one night, and you! You did both in one go!”

He doesn’t expect the tears.

“I…” The angel sniffs. “I didn’t think this through.”

“You really didn’t.”

He turns to the door, and sees Crowley leaning by the door frame with his hands crossed. “You have guts though, angel, I’ll give you that.” He pushes himself off and walks towards the hunched angel. He kneels down with him and wipes Aziraphale’s tears. “Silly, silly angel.”

“Crowley, I’m sorry—”

Crowley leans over and kisses his cheek as soft as he could, and if Aziraphale isn’t entirely sane, he’d think that he hallucinated the whole thing.

“You know, I always thought the world would end with you not realizing,” Crowley tells him with a sad smile. “I’m sort of relieved. It’s been a bit over six thousand years, after all. I could take a hint.”

“Six thousand years?!” Aziraphale gasps, and he doesn’t stop the tears from falling down completely. “I made you wait six thousand years?!”

“Angel, why are you _ crying_? For somebody’s sake, please—”

“My dear,” Aziraphale says in indignant horror. “I didn’t know.”

Crowley smiles. “I know.”

“Anathema says she has never seen you smile, ever.”

Crowley laughs. “Yeah. You’re the only one who can make me smile voluntarily, I’m afraid.”

“Six thousand years?” The angel repeats.

“Ah, ah, no crying—”

“But why would you wait that long?” Aziraphale asks, confusion running through the words steadily. “We’ll never meet our end, but that’s far too long, either way.”

Crowley cups his cheeks. “Because, my angel,” He presses their foreheads together and says, “Six thousand years are nothing compared to an eternity with you.”

Aziraphale frowns deeply, and breaks into sobs. “Oh, I love you! But I’m taking that Mona Lisa and I’ll never return it to you!”

Crowley barks out an amused laugh. “Well, if we’ll be together forever, we might as well live together, so there’s really no need for me to part with it. What’s mine is yours and all that.”

“I’m never parting with my books,” Aziraphale pouts.

“Of course,” Crowley nods, smiling as wide as he could. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Crowley’s love envelops him completely, and Aziraphale barely helps himself when he embraces Crowley for it.

On a sunny Saturday morning, Anathema wakes up to a picture message from an unknown number. It is a picture of the idiot couple; with Crowley smiling and Aziraphale pressing his lips on his cheeks with a smile.

**From: Unknown Number** **  
** _ I think I owe you a smile. Thank you. _ _  
_ _ \- A. J. Crowley _

_end_

  
  



End file.
